Rochefort 20
by Empress of Cornwall
Summary: Rochefort 2.0 A clockwork punk fiction based loosely on the 2011 Film 'T3M'. This romp involves silly gear punk, airships and some fantastical alternate reality...
1. Chapter 1

Rochefort 2.0

My elaborate little bit of gear punk whimsey is based on the The Three Musketeers film of 2011. I claim no rights to anything of Dumas' or Mr Anderson's film - its just a bit of fun. I freely recognize the influence of Mary Gentle's fantastic novel "Sundial on a Grave" in this little story.

This is specially dedicated to Caranaraf – it's all for you dear heart!

Chapter The First  
Of Angels and Airships

The fire had gone out again in her work room, and a storm was coming. Dagmar could feel it, could smell it, and could taste the coming storm. Brushing her long heavy braid of rich red hair over her shoulder she smiled absent mindedly and rearranged her simply linen apron with its many pockets full of containers of tiny gears, wires, cogs, delicate needle nosed plyers, and various unusual mechanical items. It was entirely eccentric yet completely normal for the beautiful Baroness to wear her rich hair in such a curiously unfashionable way and don a plain linen apron over her elegant brilliantly colored blue silk gown embroidered with gold and sable threads. Other ladies of her equal in birth and breeding might have been content to wander - vapid as peacocks - throughout Paris – but Dagmar was not likely to join them. Then again what other ladies could really compare in either birth or breeding with the Baroness Dagmar of Hohenzollern-Ansbach Jagersdorf. She was charisma and eccentricity personified.

Without a doubt she was one of the wealthiest independent women in all Western Europe, yet ironically she cared almost nothing about the sort of things that so many other ladies valued – jewelry was of little import – clothes – furniture – china… Others insisted on separate plates and cutlery for every course at a meal, while Dagmar often ate an apple or a peach from her hand as she read a book, reviewed a schematic or nibbled at a fresh carrot as she examined exotic texts. Other ladies loved musical instruments, but Dagmar got as much pleasure from examining the wires, hammers, pumps and pistons within her piano forte, clavichord and harpsichord as she got from playing them. Other ladies wore exotic jewelry, collars and crowns of diamonds and emeralds- yet Dagmar would often be found with the most exotic marvelous crown of all, a collection of magnifying lenses on delicate bendable wires about her head. Flashing and sparkling about her head, she might sit for hours examining and manipulating clockwork gears and cogs, while lenses made her warm browns eyes appear huge and luminous. She'd created some of the most charming magical mechanical items imaginable; such as a perfect dragonfly of the most delicate silver wire; that with the touch of a key, could fly hover and float about her chambers. Delicate mechanical items prepared and poured tea and coffee at a word or a gesture. Heavy windows could be opened and closed in various rooms with the slightest motion. Mechanica - clockwork objects made to look like dolls or children playing with cards or dancing- toys that might amuse other ladies, yet Dagmar would happily tinker with such things adapting and changing them; creating creatures with amazing skills and abilities rather than simple toys.

She was a true iconoclast and she seemed drawn to other eccentrics. Even her servants, or assistants as she preferred to call them, were as unusual as Dagmar. She encouraged their interests and they adored her for it and her personal friends were exotics, bohemians or even scoundrels. Listening to the distant thunder, Dagmar thought about two of her special friends - all of her friends had nicknames as she felt these far better reflected their true natures.

There was The Empress of Scotland, Hibernia- a woman of remarkable wit and charm. With her blue black hair, pale skin, flashing eyes and dramatic features she was a woman of mystery and excitement, an intriguer, perhaps a spy? She, even more than Dagmar loved motion, she danced and raced from place to place so swiftly it seemed as if colors flashed behind her gestures, as if she was too fluid even for the very colors of her clothes to keep up with her.

And then there was the sky witch - Demelza. Dagmar had red hair; radiant and long, Hibernia's hair was blue-black and glossy but the sky witch had hair like platinum or silver, clipped short. Hibernia was swift - quicksilver swift - but the witch was silent - still as any statue – sometimes it seemed that she was so still that she could disappear. She radiated a force of 'quiet' - a profound stillness – in the same manner that many claimed Dagmar radiated a pulsing energy and the Empress exuded speed. The sky witch possessed at least one airship, and might have been an air pirate but Dagmar never questioned her about it – that would be rude. She always smelled like a storm. One day they had all three declared themselves spontaneously to be 'the sun the moon and the radiant comet' and in that serendipitous moment Dagmar had known these two ladies to be her kindred spirits.

As Dagmar considered whether or not to relight the fire the sky darkened suddenly and there was a brilliant flash of light. Dagmar turned expecting the sudden presence of Demelza at her side - it had happened before, but the only person Dagmar noticed was one of her assistants looking stunned. "Meridoc? What is it?" she answered, shocked at the dread on the young man's face. "Baroness - there are airships trapped on the Cathedral. " He stuttered, aghast.

While others might have trembled, Dagmar was delighted…"Oh how wonderful!" she cried as she rushed out to see. The Baroness had taken a private residence very close to Notre Dame - it was a central spot in the city and she liked the view from outside her windows. Glancing out of the windows she saw two elaborately painted airships, brilliant and beautiful even when partially burned and tattered suspended over the Notre Dame. The were reminiscent of exotic birds or flying fishes with their huge balloons and gilded frames. One of the ships was impaled on the structure of the church itself. Dagmar twisted one of her lenses to her eye to get a better view and saw clearly two men fighting - fencing - on the roof of the Cathedral!

"Amazing!" she smiled focusing on the two men. One was a beardless boy, but the other was a man. Vital elegant and fluid as any tiger, he moved with the clean sublime perfection of a true athlete. The boy was no real match for him; Dagmar seemed to know by some instinct. "_Oh he is perfect_… err **this is perfect…**" she called out "Aldamar, Meridoc - I need to get as close to the Cathedral as possible NOW!" She raced outside into her courtyard and stumbled across a large cart drawn by two grey draft horses; it had just been emptied of various household supplies, eggs, fruit, wine, butter, candles, wheat, cheese and other foodstuffs. All that was left was some straw and packing supplies. "Hurry comrades…hurry!" She ran to the nearly empty cart and within a few moments all three of them were racing, pell-mell through the strangely quiet streets towards Notre Dame. The storm filled Dagmar with a nervous energy - or was it the erotic power of the battle on the Cathedral rooftop? Erotic - well she might not have said that to Meridoc or Aldemar but the potent vibrancy of the mature fighter seemed to scream of Erotic energy - life force itself and it drew her like a magnet.

Even the storm was drawn to this conflict the clouds swirled black and purple in the story sky and if it were possible even the lightning and thunder seemed to bend their chthonic forces in this surreal battle on the roof of the Cathedral. What was all this about – why were these men fighting, or as Dagmar was actually thinking to herself "why is that silly little boy bothering that magnificent man and wasting his precious time?"

Soon the three in their rustic cart had reached the cathedral grounds. The battle raged on almost directly over their heads. Dagmar leaped from the cart and raced about to try to find a better view of both the punctured airships and of the battle. She was surprised to see that canons and heavy armaments seem to have been scattered about the gardens directly adjoining the church – she surmised that they must have been thrown or fallen from one of the airships. This was all part of some battle, some great conflict and now something wonderfully ancient and primal called to Dagmar to participate in this experience. As she caught her breath she heard a terrible crashing sound and Aldemar cried out in horror. Looking up at the balloon like structures she considered if Aldemar had been struck by something falling from such a height – she raced back to the cart only to see that both Aldemar and Meridoc was unhurt but dreadfully frightened - and as she saw what had landed in the cart somehow the Baroness knew that everything in her life was about to change.

A man had fallen from the roof of the cathedral directly into the packed straw of the cart. Meridoc became a sudden champion of the obvious and stated "He fell from the sky! It's raining men!"

"Hallelujah!" Dagmar heard someone cry out, and only later did she realize that the breathy voice was her own. In an instant she was in the cart examining this man – he was breathing very shallowly and she could see he'd been stabbed but the fall seemed to have done him little damage although she doubted he was conscious. After such a titanic struggle even a demigod might need rest...

"Hurry comrades we must take him to my laboratory…"  
"He fell from heaven…" Meridoc once again revealed his mastery of the obvious.

"An angel…" Dagmar whispered

"Lucifer fell!"

"Aldemar are you some sort of priest? We are taking him back to my laboratory NOW."

Aldemar and Meridoc ware soon calmed and comfortable after Dagmar instructed the cook to offer them 'something special' to fortify themselves with, after they'd unloaded the invalid in Dagmar's laboratory. She insisted that they speak to no one of this business, and she knew that once these two good hearted but rather superstitious men had calmed down they would stop all this nonsense about demons thrown from the sky by the power of the church. And a dram of opiate in the wine would soon still their irrational chattering for the moment. Dagmar didn't like the thought of drugging her servants but this was important and she felt that soon they would agree.

Alone in the quiet laboratory she'd done her best to get the stranger comfortable. Now she examined him carefully - always aware of his labored breathing. He wore an eye patch from some old wound no doubt, now quite healed and Dagmar imagined what the color of his eye might be. Still she needed to dress his recent wounds and make sure that no bones were broken.

She cut away his elegant leather doublet and breaches, admiring not only his body but his subtle sense of good taste. Some tailors could enhance a man's physique with padding in -err - certain places - but this man required no such artifice. Dagmar had been quite correct about him in her first comments upon seeing him_ he was perfect_… However he'd also been stabbed and had fallen from a great height. She bandaged him as best she could and her next worry was shock – the trauma of battle might be too much ever for such a magnificent creature as this. She had to keep him warm and monitor him - his heart rate and his pulse.

Dagmar was an eccentric but she was also pragmatic and rational. This man needed heat and care and she was going to provide it – she removed her apron and her magnifying lens headpiece – this caused her hair to come undone, and she did her best to shed her gown, corset, underskirt, petticoat, stockings and shoes as quickly as possible. "I must keep you warm." Dagmar said gently, although she doubted that the man was conscious of her - but it felt important to express out loud. Her healthy and curvaceous body quickly wrapped around his and she bound them with warm thick blankets. She needed to keep him warm and safe. Tucked up in this masterful little cocoon she carefully rhythmically ran her hands over his body, caressing him - it was important to keep the blood flowing.

All for science!  
_


	2. Chapter 2

Rochefort 2.0

The continuing TTM Gear punk fantasy. I have no rights to Dumas' works or Anderson's TTM 2011 -this is just my twisted little imagination.

Chapter the Second

The Invalid's Dream

I am Valentin August Joachim DeValmort, Comte De Rochefort - the greatest swordsmen of my generation and an abomination to my family. A criminal, a hero, sell sword, and champion of justice, servant to the Archbishop, devoted to one king, enemy to his son. I am a man damned by cruel honesty and I am dying…maybe I am dead already – in Heaven? Hell? I cannot guess. I remember fighting that worthless Gascoigne on the roof of the Cathedral – He thought himself a clever fellow, but he was a weak fighter. That was my mistake. The greatest swordsman's true foe is not the second best swordsmen it's the poorest fighter - the worst one.

I do not exaggerate _- I have never exaggerated_ – he was just a country boy with delusions and an antique sword - and luck. I told him the truth - he should have stayed in Gascony. I always tell the truth, _damn it_ – my life would have been less tragic if I could bend reality into graceful knots…but I never could do that. And so he stabbed me and I fell … and so I must be dead… I fell…

I rest here - Heaven? Its warm – is this Hell? I could feel my live ebbing away… blood draining away - so cold - so very cold - so still – then…then… I felt warmth and the sun on my soul. On my soul …Outside me and within me I felt a pulse a heartbeat life. A woman with long red hair holding me in her arms - a dream. Can the dead dream? She is naked in my arms touching me, oh god - caressing me - pulling me through from life to death - from death to life … So beautiful - so full of pulsing life …

Can the dead dream?

I don't remember any dreams like this when I was alive…

What a perfect dream this is.


	3. Chapter 3

New non canonical TTM 2011 characters will be introduced in this chapter and while I claim no right to either Dumas' novels or Anderson's film - my characters here are entirely mine … Ahhh to dream such sweet dreams …

The Cat and Cliff

In an unremarkable village in Sussex, stood an unremarkable tavern – it had stood on that spot for not quite three hundred years and in that time it had used many names – she knew them all. The Three Kings, Queens Crown, The Red Hill, Horned God, Oak and Crown, Broken Cup, The Dancing Dog, Sun and Star, Four Lions, New Crown, Apple Tree… Now it was the Lion on the Precipice and was commonly referred to by its patrons as the Cat and Cliff. A painted sign of a lion poised on the edge of a dramatic promontory identified it to those who could not read well, but the artist's vision had passed his skills - so the 'lion' looked more like a well fed ginger tom. It was a motley place, offering assorted ales, porters, beers, some wines, brandy and mead. A fire and a simple meal and sometimes a bed for the night could be found there. The Cat and Cliff was unremarkable, unnoticeable and utterly ordinary and was thus very popular with the most unusual clientele. The very most unusual clientele…

That night in a tall heavy chair a body sprawled by the fire. Long legs in simple leggings, tall brown boots, and a padded doublet of rusty red brown – all of which had seen better days and had been much worn and mended, and a simple broad brimmed hat had been pulled lower over the travelers head so no one would really be able to see the face. Not that it mattered, as no one was looking. The tavern was - if not noisy - full of the distracting chatter any public place might be and as patrons came and went regulars were often convivially ignored or greeted boisterously. The tavern keeper knew well who to see and who to ignore. A man of near six feet entered in a travel stained cloak – he doffed his hat and glanced at the tavern owner who promptly handed him a tankard, nodded to the fireplace and then ignored him. He was a regular there. The man smiled quietly, his brilliant pale green eyes sparkling over the lip of the tankard as he drank and ran his fingers over the dark hairs on his closely shorn scalp. He worked his way to an empty table and settled himself, watching the fire and enjoying the general banter. A serving girl brought him a dented pewter plate with a few sausages, bread and some leeks. He ate. The body in the tall chair never moved. After some time the man yawned, rubbed his salt and pepper stubble and placed some copper coins near the empty plate. He gestured with his tankard, his eyes still on the fire. Another maid took the coins, the plate, refilled his drink and slipped a key in his hand. He smiled at her. He was a regular and he knew where the stairs were and where his room was. Glancing again at the fire he noticed that the chair was empty. He moved through the crowd and took a candle with him up the stairs to the small room at the end of the hall. The door was locked. But his key fit and as he entered he noticed that a small fire had already been lit.

"Hello Llewellyn" a pale youth greeted him in a soft voice. The figure from the fireplace stood in his room, and discarded the hat that had been pulled low. Short Silver white hair and eyes like moss starred at him, a faint smile teasing him from across the room.

"Hello Evans - you cheeky thing" he murmured as she laughed at his greeting. "Gods, how I've missed you." He moaned kissing the hollow of her throat as he began pushing the edges of the collar of her loose shirt down to expose her shoulder as his fingers undid her doublet. "You smell like wind and rain. Did you fly here my pretty witch?"

"Not practical" she smiled "although if that idiot Buckingham is going to by any less subtle with his gaudy toys it might begin to draw less attention than horses or ships"

"Do you ever wear dresses?" The taller man asked distractedly as he pulled her loose linen shirt out from her leggings and slid his hands possessively over her hips. "I 'm not complaining of course, I was just ummm - curious."

"Do you my pretty Owen?" she answered him – "Petticoats and dirigibles are not the best of combinations…Maybe I might try a frock – _now that I see that you're into that sort of thing_… Maybe?"

"Well did your darling Baroness D. offer up any new clockwork toys?"

"Llewellyn - I had best keep you two far apart…"

"Oh my - don't you trust me?"

"You? No, I know you my heart- and I don't trust you at all." She laughed again "But my Baroness is clever and witty…"

"Ah would I like her?"

"No doubt my darling…She might well like you too… almost everyone likes you…"

"Buckingham doesn't…" he almost sulked

"Buckingham's a fool… a brightly feathered fool."


	4. Chapter 4

I have no right to either the characters from the book 'The Three Musketeers' or the characters portrayed in the 2011 film – my interpretations are entirely my own and my portrayal is decidedly an 'anti musketeer' bias. Please bear this in mind and be charitable to me in your reviews.

This tale was inspired by autumnal daydreams.

Chapter the Fourth - The Myth of the Musketeers

The Kings Musketeers were like all popular myths, a paradox of history. While later generations may idealize them - to their contemporaries they were troublemakers and reactionaries. To the Archbishop they were an annoyance and to his agent Rochefort they were a tiresome bother, like a pebble lodged in ones boot. It was a supreme irony that for all their claims of being devoted to the concept of 'All for One and One for All' - they all wore the eight pointed star of Chaos on their clothes. They might pay lip service to Order but the Musketeers lived for chaos. Although they might claim to love King Louis; the handful of men who still openly identified themselves as Musketeers were not generally speaking really honorable fellows.

Porthos (or Isaac de Portau) - sometimes called the Giant - was a man of remarkable passions, but for all his strength, he rarely got angry. He loved good food, wine and women but he was far more prone to fall in love than to simply have affairs – and he had a curious fear of prostitutes due to an ugly experience in his youth. Porthos was one of the last men of classic chivalry; he protected the weak and cared for the innocent. Life had not yet left him as embittered and cynical as it had Armand. He was the most friendly of all of the three and the most honest.

Henri d'Aramitz, or Aramis was at his best a religious soldier – he might like to think that he was a spiritual warrior or a Knight of God - but down deep he was just a professional killer with a very superstitious streak. It was understood that he had once dreamed of becoming a priest and had tried to take holy orders however Henri struggled to read even the most basic French text, his Latin was poor and his Greek was nonexistent. He was almost always seen with a book or a religious text or pamphlet in his hand, and this encouraged the impression that he was a scholar. Henri could be patient and had the potential to learn but he never really made an effort. This was his vanity and his greatest flaw.

Athos, or Armand de Seigneur d'Athos et d'Autreville as he was known, was far more likely to curse his king as a dull-witted child, an idiot or a moron - once he was in his cups which was far too often. A fine way to show loyalty by loudly condemning their patron in public, but it was to be expected. Armand was a bitter and resentful drunk. He fancied himself a great lover, but his fears and his broken heart damned him to be more of a lecher. He was a vain and insecure man yet he had the potential be kind and sincere, but he was secretly in love with Rochefort and never could admit it to himself. This internal struggle weakened his as a fighter and fed his insecurities which caused him to drink excessively. Athos always referred to the object of his secret affections as de Rochefort rather than acknowledge the fact that Valentin had been disgraced and disinherited due to a scandal in his youth. Many thought this was Armand's attempt to taunt him - but a few knew the truth of it.

Of course Armand was quite right, Louis XIII was rather dull witted and the Archbishop did rule France. This was true. Richelieu managed the state well while Louis struggled with his stutter and his young infertile wife Ann of Austria. The Archbishop inherited King Henry's agents including the Duc de Sully's man, Rochefort. Richelieu was clever he knew that Rochefort was intelligent and above all practical, so he used Rochefort as well as one Lady Maxim, or Charlotte, Countess De Winter as his able agents. Charlotte was a practiced spy - as any attractive and clever woman of that era was bound to be. Rochefort had connections, his fighting skills, his rapier wit and a remarkable sense of charisma that bound men to him. He didn't need to bully his servants or his soldiers; they followed him - if not slavishly then with a sincere devotion.

And then of course there was the peasant boy from Gascony - who now believed that he had killed the greatest duelist in all of France…that he had killed the captain of the Archbishops guards…that he had vanquished Rochefort. Armand encouraged this fantasy by suggesting to the King that the Cardinal had discovered a 'spy' and that the Musketeers had helped to protect France by exposing 'this traitor' and providing Louis with the broken shell of an Airship as a gift.

Of all the court only one there understood exactly what Athos was really saying in calling Rochefort a traitor – only one who saw the tension in his face as he spoke of Rochefort – the lady in waiting Vivianna Stuart-Halley, the dark haired beauty known by her friends as Hibernia, or the Radiant Comet.


	5. Chapter 5

Once again I'm introducing non canonical characters into my clockwork punk reimagining of the 2011 Anderson T3M film. As this is a gear punk version, please understand that I may introduce some rather other worldly elements in the story (no werewolves and no vampires - I promise) but there could well be some interesting twists on the dynamics of the physical world of this alternate 17th century Europe - then again Anderson introduced Airships and Aquatic warfare technology… so I may be safe!

Dutch Slops are a style of baggy pantaloons worn tucked into boots; they were the height of men's fashion in the early 17th century.

This story is rated M for a reason.

**Chapter the Fifth Back at the Cat and Cliff **

"Ah would I like her?"

"No doubt my darling…She might well like you too… almost everyone likes you…"

"Buckingham doesn't…" he almost sulked

"Buckingham's a fool… a brightly feathered fool."

Llewellyn grimaced at her words – he hated Buckingham, his wealth, his power and most of all he hated his thoughtless, vapid nature. Buckingham was like a shimmering soup bubble, iridescent in the light, floating on the air - alight on the breath of the Stuart King. Llewellyn hated him yet still wanted all his success and power even as he held him in contempt. He hated the order of things and longed for change. He loathed James Stuart and saw him as a religious fanatic and a narrow minded tyrant.

Demelza Evans, the woman dressed as a man in his room (and in his arms) understood this. She understood him. They both had no love for the current king, although their individual reasons were not the same. She'd seen more in her life - both of terror and joy - than Llewellyn would ever - could ever - possibly know. Her face might be fair, but her eyes and her soul were older than he could guess. She cared for him very deeply and was willing to do almost anything to keep him safe. Really Demelza knew that she loved Llewellyn, but she feared it would end badly - so she tried not to admit the truth to herself.

There were always secrets - so many secrets - in both their eyes when they looked at each other like this. She hated it - but it was important… she knew that a secret wasn't a lie. Sometimes it was a form of protection - like a shield, or a bandage to cover a wound until it was healed… however long it took to heal - to protect - to shield. She would never let this man be hurt…_**never! **_Once Demelza set her mind on such an objective she would not fail in her effort. She'd failed once to protect someone she'd loved from a cruel fate - but that had been a long time ago - and this time she'd not allow her dear one to suffer. _Not this one!_ One damned dragon had cursed me - but this Welshman I will protect…

A ghost of a memory floated on the edges of her consciousness – like a dirigible drifting high above the clouds on a still midwinter night... Llewellyn would never need to know of her past failure, he could never understand it anyway - so she smiled and teased him gently, "I gather he's _lost_ one of his airships - _misplaced_ it maybe? I heard that some Frenchmen _borrowed it_? Then again, he may have left it amongst some of his other shiny toys… or maybe "the Stuart" has it…"

"Come here" he growled grabbing her and stopping her chatter with his mouth.

Llewellyn's kisses never ceased to delight and arouse her - he was a wonder. He could intoxicate her and make her ache madly with just a kiss. His mouth was greedy and the irresistible taste of him filled her with each breath. She felt a wonderful ravenous hunger at his touch. She wanted to make him as aroused as she was, and to make his body tremble with the same cravings that she suffered. He was already hard against her and she, breathless, clung to him. He smothered her throat and shoulders with his fervent lusty kisses and having removed her doublet he slipped his hands under the loose linen shirt to caress her breasts. She pulled at his slops and clawed at his shift. His voice was deep harsh and rusty with hunger as he moaned her name; he pulled her linen blouse over her head and drew her hips to him slipping a hand into her leggings, fondling her buttocks. She cried out with growing intensity stroking his beautiful face gazing into his lovely pale green eyes now so dark with desire. She loved to stare into his heavily lidded right eye – it seemed sleepy and especially erotic to her. He lowered his mouth to hers and it was as if neither one of them could get enough. He was kissing her lips hard and hungrily while one hand pulled her leggings off her buttocks while the other hand caressed her breasts. He gasped and she shuddered, "I need you …" he murmured his voice choked and smoky. They separated so she could remove her leggings and boots.

She perched on the bed and watched him pull off his slops boots and shirt. "Beautiful man" she said as he turned to her. He laughed "I always aim to please…" he said turning to her his face both happy and hungry. She admired his erection and reached for him. Owen came to the bed and pulled her close. She leaned back onto the pillows stoking his cock in the way that she found he especially liked, while he slipped his tongue over her breasts. She moaned, grasped his erection and greedily slipped him inside her. Owen moved within her – he wanted her so intensely tonight and the feel of her around him made him dizzy. She was wet, tight, so warm and so delicious… A deep passionate groan escaped him as he pulled her close- she gasped "Ei -Ei … yes… yes… "He began to thrust vigorously into her as she wrapped her legs around him. Locking her ankles she pulled him inside her as deeply as possible…Owen was so hungry tonight he concentrated trying to last just a little bit longer …Just a little longer…He felt her body spasm around him, oh gods what she did to him… "Evans!" he cried out. "My love…my love" he muttered into her throat.

Later he whispered in her ear "I swear you'll be the death of me."

She smiled at him. "I thought we might -perhaps- "experiment" in my dirigible one time …the motion in the air can be – well - rather _compelling…" _

"No wonder you're so insatiable…" Owen purred at her.

"I will assume you're not complaining…"

"I'm not a fool."

"No my heart" she smiled "you are no fool."


End file.
